O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1921 | Page 8

thick bamboos. Too many things can happen to prevent them ever
coming out again; too many brown silent ribbons crawl in the grass, or
too many yellow, striped creatures, no less lithe, lurk in the thickets.
But the strangest thing of all--and the surest sign of witchcraft--was
that he had always come safely out again, yet with never any
satisfactory explanations as to why he had gone. He had always looked
some way very joyful and tremulous--and perhaps even pale if from the
nature of things a brown boy ever can look pale. But it was the kind of
paleness that one has after a particularly exquisite experience. It was
not the dumb, teeth-chattering paleness of fear.
"I saw the sergeant of the jungle," Little Shikara said after one of these
excursions. And this made no sense at all.
"There are none of the King's soldiers here," the brown village folk
replied to him. "Either thou liest to us, or thine eyes lied to thee. And
didst thou also see the chevron that told his rank?"
"That was the way I knew him. It was the black bear, and he wore the
pale chevron low on his throat."
This was Little Shikara all over. Of course he referred to the black
Himalayan bear which all men know wears a yellowish patch, of
chevron shape, just in front of his fore legs; but why he should call him

a jungle-sergeant was quite beyond the wit of the village folk to say.
Their imagination did not run in that direction. It never even occurred
to them that Little Shikara might be a born jungle creature, expatriated
by the accident of birth--one of that free, strange breed that can never
find peace in the villages of men.
"But remember the name we gave him," his mother would say.
"Perhaps he is only living up to his name."
For there are certain native hunters in India that are known, far and
wide, as the Shikaris; and possibly she meant in her tolerance that her
little son was merely a born huntsman. But in reality Little Shikara was
not named for these men at all. Rather it was for a certain fleet-winged
little hawk, a hunter of sparrows, that is one of the most free spirits in
all the jungle.
And it was almost like taking part in some great hunt himself--to be
waiting at the gate for the return of Warwick Sahib. Even now, the
elephant came striding out of the shadows; and Little Shikara could see
the trophy. The hunt had indeed been successful, and the boy's glowing
eyes beheld--even in the shadows--the largest, most beautiful tiger-skin
he had ever seen. It was the great Nahar, the royal tiger, who had killed
one hundred cattle from near-by fields.
Warwick Sahib rode in his howdah, and he did not seem to see the
village people that came out to meet him. In truth, he seemed half
asleep, his muscles limp, his gray eyes full of thoughts. He made no
answer to the triumphant shouts of the village folk. Little Shikara
glanced once at the lean, bronzed face, the limp, white, thin hands, and
something like a shiver of ecstasy went clear to his ten toes. For like
many other small boys, all over the broad world, he was a
hero-worshipper to the last hair of his head; and this quiet man on the
elephant was to him beyond all measure the most wonderful living
creature on the earth.
He didn't cry out, as the others did. He simply stood in mute worship,
his little body tingling with glory. Warwick Sahib had looked up now,
and his slow eyes were sweeping the line of brown faces. But still he

did not seem to see them. And then--wonder of wonders--his eyes
rested full on the eyes of his little worshipper beside the gate.
But it was quite the way of Warwick Sahib to sweep his gray, tired-out
eyes over a scene and seemingly perceive nothing; yet in reality
absorbing every detail with the accuracy of a photographic plate. And
his seeming indifference was not a pose with him, either. He was just a
great sportsman who was also an English gentleman, and he had
learned certain lessons of impassiveness from the wild. Only one of the
brown faces he beheld was worth a lingering glance. And when he met
that one his eyes halted in their sweeping survey--and Warwick Sahib
smiled.
That face was the brown, eager visage of Little Shikara. And the blood
of the boy flowed to the skin, and he glowed red all over through the
brown.
It was only the faintest of quiet, tolerant smiles; but it meant more to
him than almost any kind of an honour could have meant to the
prematurely